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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669536">caprice d’après l’étude en forme de valse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou'>shatou</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:07:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669536</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their courtship has boiled and bubbled, scorched the ground and blistered them both. They have engraved whispers into bone marrow, brought their love down to a simmer, bone-deep and eternal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>caprice d’après l’étude en forme de valse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The wind taps on their window. Will glances outside. Heavy rolls of clouds grayed the horizon, and the trees are practically dancing, the way their branches whips. Forecast said a thunderstorm would be coming today. Hannibal is still not back from the artisan market. He knows better than to worry about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hannibal v. Nature</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it’s instinctive, nowadays. When you have a pack, you think of, and about, and for your pack members. You don’t get to choose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuffles around the house, picking up the little chores that are left. Clean and refill the dogs’ water bowls (they have three, for the time being) and rearrange their mishmash of beds. Wipe the kitchen counter (he doesn’t touch the utensil racks). Fold the throw blanket mindlessly, only to shake it out and drape it over the couch again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal is supposed to be only out for fruits and vegetables. He’s been anticipating a batch of fresh figs. Hannibal has plans for a pâté en croûte this weekend, and they were going to get the meat together. Granted, if Hannibal </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> go off-schedule, it wouldn’t be the first time. Will checks the clock: six thirty. The ticking is starting to annoy him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is tempted to open the door and step outside. A snap of cold the skin is more useful than you might think. Go outside and maybe have a smoke. Hannibal wouldn’t approve, though the only penalty these days is a ban on kissing. A ban that would last about a few hours tops. Will smiles. He doesn’t go outside and he doesn’t smoke. Instead, he plucks a book from the shelf and sits down between the cushions. The dogs come flopping down at his feet a little later. He gives them the occasional pet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The book barely hold his attention. His mind is afloat, drifting from mundane to profane. Thinking about Hannibal kindles a pleasant, tickling warmth in his chest. It used to be a fire that brought him to the edge of nausea, confusion and guilt that sent him reeling into vertigo. Well, sometimes it still is; but then his hand would touch Hannibal’s scars and Hannibal would touch his, and he knows there’s no sweeter regeneration than their gentle, gradual, mutual destruction. Will sighs, fingers running down the edge of a page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, rain starts to pitter-patter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will dog-ears the book then, reaches forward to check his phone. The last message was from over an hour ago, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I will be back by seven.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s ten minutes to seven now, which means he would likely embarrass himself if he fusses - he wouldn’t hear the end of it, wouldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see </span>
  </em>
  <span>the end of it, of Hannibal’s knowing, pleased smiles. The bastard enjoys himself a little too much. Unfortunately Will enjoys him just about as much, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of rainfall hardens on the gravel. Will realizes he’s been staring at the book’s cover, so he sets the book down and stands up. He goes back into the kitchen with the full intention to raid the fridge. There is a half-eaten bar of artisanal chocolate in there, dark with pistachio and hazelnut. There is panna cotta that Hannibal has made in the morning and has left in there to set. There is an innocuous pot of liver mousse pâté in the corner. There’s nothing here for him to raid, except if he wants to steal his own share of tonight’s dessert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will closes the fridge and goes to the cabinet from across the room, where he keeps his dog treats. The rustling of wrappers is enough for them to perk up and totter into the kitchen. Will shushes them with a smile and shoots another glance at the window. The rain threatens to weave a tight tapestry out there. Will herds the dogs back into the living room and tries not to imagine a disaster scenario. It’s three minutes to seven. He places the treats into the bowls, leaning against the wall as he watches them crowd around the feeding station. No disaster scenario. Nobody can recognize them here, now, after so long. It’s two minutes to seven. He’s tempted to pick up his book again, or go wash his hands and make the bed. His phone doesn’t buzz, doesn’t blink any push notification; no new message. It’s alright, Hannibal is safe. They are safe. It’s one minute to seven. They are safe, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal opens the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nearly jumps at the clicking of the lock. The door creaks as Hannibal steps in and turns to shake the water out of his umbrella.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Will greets, feeling a little dumb for his antsy state the past two - no, three, he’s started folding and shaking out the throw blanket when the sun was still up, so three - hours. He holds out his hand for the shopping bags. Hannibal smells like rain; Hannibal smells cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, Will?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Oh, I mean, no problem. Wait, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span>— I’m alright.” Will grimaces and shuffles the bags. “I’m going to take these into the kitchen,” he declares, a bit needlessly, as he’s already turned away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal doesn’t say anything, but Will can feel his leveling look burning a hole on the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shopping bags are light. Not many, not much, just fresh figs as promised. The heaviest bag is filled with oranges and pears. No dairy. The other heavy bag contains a packet of some sort of grain. It looks like barley; it probably is barley. He arranges the fruits in a basket. When he looks at his hand, he suspects the ground around him is having a light seism. But there is no earthquake - just his hand, shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then his hand doesn’t shake anymore. Hannibal’s fingers smoothly lace into his own, their rings catching onto each other for a brief second. Hannibal is behind him, heartbeat steady against his spine. Hannibal’s lips ghost over his nape. Will shudders out a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I owe you an apology?” Hannibal says, inquisitive and neutral. His free hand sets over the jut of Will’s hipbone. He’s not apologetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said that,” Will shrugs. He places the last pear in to the basket and leans back, back, back, sinks into the anchored warm that is Hannibal. Bask in it, for he would never escape from it. One does not escape from a beacon when one has been perpetually lost at sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You certainly never did,” Hannibal agrees, but his hands inches towards Will’s navel, splays over the scar. His fingers curl down into Will’s palm; his chin tuck on Will’s shoulder. They sway, a little, chest to back and hip to hip, in a quietness so gentle and darling it makes him want to scream. It is a long silence filled with guttural hums and peppering kisses, before Hannibal speaks again. “You gave the dogs treats, just now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have already given them some, earlier today,” Hannibal says, patiently. Will knows what he means. He lets Hannibal have it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess I must’ve forgotten,” he mutters, bringing Hannibal’s hand to his mouth. He kisses Hannibal’s knuckles. Who would’ve thought such elegant, musical fingers are capable of the beautiful cruelty he has wrought? He feels Hannibal shiver in the slightest. “What about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hannibal takes what Will lets him, then. “You give when you are anxious, Will,” he says the obvious, but without the obvious. Will has thought he would say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>give the dogs a treat</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because it is true - he has noticed; he makes new treats and dog food when he is antsy, as well, which explains their ample reserve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Give what, now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will exhales, the minute trace of a laughter in his huff. “Speak like a normal person, Hannibal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I do not bother with any pretense of normalcy. Nor do you, not any longer.” Hannibal noses against the hinge of his jaw. He walks Will forward just one third of a step, about enough to press him lightly against the edge of the counter. “Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what you are thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will closes his eyes. His pulse must have jumped under Hannibal’s lips, painfully obvious. Hannibal turns him around, so delicately it hurts, and kisses him. Chaste, with a hand on the back of his head like. Will opens his eyes. Hannibal looks far less apathetic than he has sounded, lips slightly upturned at the corners. Hannibal’s eyes are warm. Will searches them for any sign of a challenge or a game. He just sees his own reflection. Light catches in them, lovingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering whether you were planning to make mugicha,” he says, and Hannibal smiles. Will relaxes. Hannibal envelops him with his arms, his voice, his presence alone. Hannibal kisses his forehead and Will’s hands wander up Hannibal’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all?” Hannibal whispers, like an afterthought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is,” Will says. He leans in for another kiss, deeper this time; he tilts his head into it and parts his lips and gasps like it’s his first gulp of air in a lifetime. He knows how it feels to be stranded in his own mind. He revels and unravels in the knowledge that he isn’t anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The storm picks up where it cannot reach them.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from 6 Études Op. 52 No. 6 by Camille Saint-Saëns.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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